Scars of War
by The Frog
Summary: Harry Potter disappeared from the wizarding world nine years ago. Today, Evan Jameson, famous Muggle writer, is about to meet his past in a coffee shop. H/G. PG13 for sex innuendo. Reposting ch.1 b/c formatting got screwed up, sorry. Now complete.
1. Of Hovels and Heartbreak

A/N:  Inspiration from this fic came from Blue's _Just This? On fanfiction.net.  If you're into slash, I highly recommend it.  Also, a huge, Huge, HUGE thanks to my beta readers, Elanor Gamgee at the Sugarquill and Anne at Gryffindor Tower, without whom I would have split infinitives and commas where there should be semi-colons (and vice-versa!), and lots of Americanisms.  Thanks!_

Disclaimer:  I don't own it.  Don't sue me.   

_            Steam drifted up from the sewer grates as the frigid December air met with the warm, stagnant underground, curling around the toe of a smart, low-heeled leather pump.  She stepped to the curb, almost slipping in the dirty city slush that was the remnant of London's first snow of the season.  There would be more to come.  "Taxi!" she cried, though her voice was drowned out as a horn blared and a pair of headlights rushed past, sending a spray of freezing ice melt onto the woman's tailored jacket.  Not even a cab would stop at this time of night, not in this part of town.  She sighed, brushed herself off, smoothing the suit that had been rumpled throughout a horrendous day at work, and adjusted the cashmere muffler so that it once again covered the entirety of her face, leaving only a small slit that allowed steely grey eyes to show through._

_            She continued to walk, aware of the mournful vagrants that wandered the street, taking in her smart business apparel and licking their alcohol-parched lips at the thought of just how much liquor her purse might bring.  It was like this every night.  She clutched her bag more tightly and walked a bit faster, smoothing her pants and dragging her muffler up as she fought to keep her attention anywhere but on her immediate surroundings.  The muffler slipped again, and this time she yanked it up as far as it would go; she recoiled as her perfectly self-manicured fingernails scratched the surface of her grotesquely deformed skin—the northernmost edge of a scar that stretched from the middle of her chin to her right temple.  Yes, she would get him back some day.  For what he did.  For the torture, both physical and mental, that she had suffered on his behalf.  For the bruises and cuts.  And especially for making her love him.    _

Evan Jameson sighed and raked his hands through his unruly black hair.  Startlingly green eyes stared through stylish wire-framed glasses at the spiral-bound notebook that rested in front of him.  The first page of the newly purchased book was already full of what promised, merely by Evan's name, to be a best-seller.  While this first of many pages would be worked, re-worked, changed, and probably unrecognizable by the publishing date, it was, at least, a good place to start. 

            _What he'd done.  He had been given a death sentence for it.  Nothing less than he deserved for all the lives he had destroyed.  Death, in fact, was too kind for him.  She touched the scar again and halted in the dimly lit street, suddenly drowning in a flood of horrific memories.  A knife, he had said.  She should be lucky that he had used a knife.  She should feel honored that he wanted to be the last to look upon her beautiful face.  _

_            She shuddered, recalling his foul words, the malicious, sadistic smile on his face.  No, lethal injection wasn't justice.  He wouldn't have to relive all of the pain he had caused.  He wouldn't have to live for the rest of his life with the memory of searing pain permanently blazoned in his mind.  She alone would give him the justice he deserved.  A tear rolled down her left cheek from her one good eye.  The only one that could__ cry.  He would pay.  Ginny clenched her fists.  Yes, Harry Potter would pay for the lives he had destroyed. _

            Evan's head snapped up.  Where had that come from?  Ginny…Harry Potter…his eyes had drooped and the words had written themselves.  They never would have made paper, never would have entered his waking consciousness, otherwise.  He quickly scratched the last two lines out and started a new paragraph, willing himself not to re-read them, willing himself not to think about why he wrote human suffering so well.  Willing himself not to remember just how much of it he had seen.  

_Ginny clenched her fists.  Yes, Harry Potter would pay for the lives he had destroyed.  _

_She jumped as a gnarled, weather-beaten hand clamped hard onto her shoulder.  A beggar, one of those drunken vagrants, startled her from her thoughts of vengeance.  Fear momentarily clouded her burning anger; a chill ran through her as she stared into watery blue eyes dulled by years on the street and sharpened with a hunger that liquor consumption alone had not cured.  His mouth was stretched into a wide gummy grin, his few misshapen teeth moldy and rotten, pouring a foul reek as he fumbled greedily for her purse.  _

_Her face contorted in horror and the muffler fell, revealing her countenance and the length of her hideous scar.  The beggar's ghastly grin disappeared.  His bleary eyes focused, traveling from her eye to her chin and back.  Slowly he backed away, mumbling his apologies and vanishing back into the dark alleyway.  She suddenly wished that he had taken her purse instead.    _

Evan sighed again and flipped the notebook closed.  He realized that any psychologist would give up his entire practice just for the chance at an hour with the author's brain.  He had done it again.  He hadn't meant to, of course, but it had happened.  This would be his seventh book in a row to have a scar prominently figured in it.  Oh, he knew the psychological implications of this.  His subconscious just wouldn't let him off.  The scar had become a trademark of his, one he would gladly escape from.  One he had tried to escape from but never seemed able.  _Always famous for my scars, he thought bitterly.  __Except this time, I've brought it upon myself.  Physically or otherwise, there will always be scars in my life.  _

He momentarily considered just tossing the notebook out and starting something new, something fresh.  Something that didn't scream "troubled past" from every sentence.  Nevertheless, he added the notebook to his collection and made the short trip across his tiny London flat to his tiny stove and set the tea.  As he took what was supposed to be the first soothing sip, he winced as he realized that he had forgotten to add the teabag. The amber brown of the liquid was, in fact, the actual color of the water.

Most people would have died of shock if they knew that the great Evan Jameson, author of six best-selling novels over the course of seven years, multi-millionaire, and recently voted most eligible bachelor by _Women's Literary Republic, lived in poverty-level squalor.  Evan's flat consisted of only three rooms. There was one pathetically small bedroom that barely fit a cot and a reading light with room to swing the door open to the inside and to pile his notebooks on__ the__ floor. Next to that was a smaller bathroom with a grubby toilet and a square standup shower measuring about one metre by one metre—the water sometimes ran and sometimes didn't, regardless of whether or not he was up on his payments, and it was never warm. The small common area had a stove, a sink, and a small wooden cupboard on the wall.  This served as his kitchen and living room; a worn, dirty couch bought second-hand separated the two.  There was a broken-down telly by the window, which was boarded up but still emitted tiny shafts of light through intermittent holes created by termites.  The floor was covered in a moth-eaten rug that might, at one point, have been red, but was now a grayish brown color.  Evan tossed the chipped ceramic mug into the beaten sink and flopped himself on the couch.  A cloud of dust rose around him, making him splutter and clean his glasses.    
  
  
_

Most people, in fact, had never even seen him.  He kept to himself, attending no book signings or publicity stunts.  His photo never graced the back cover of his books, either.  He limited his biographical page always to the same two sentences:

**Evan Jameson was born in 1980.**

**He currently resides in Great Britain.**

            The mystery that was Evan Jameson sparked many a coffee shop conversation and provided all of the publicity he needed for a successful career.  

Evan looked restlessly about his dismal surroundings and realized exactly why he had been so creatively stifled of late.  The lack of light and color in that room in which he spent so much time had slowed his thinking to a dull torpor.  He needed to get out.  He needed the caffeine that only a steamy cup of coffee could provide; not even his beloved tea would suffice at this point.  He also needed cleaner water, but a cup of coffee would suffice for now.  Rising slowly from the musty couch, he grabbed his wallet and the notebook he had just been working in.  Perhaps inspiration would find him in the coffee shop. 

            Taking a breath of sweet London pollution, watching the sky gradually turn a lifeless grey color, and feeling the wet, sticky air before the rain made him feel alive again.  This was dreariness at its best.  This was London.  This was what suspense novels were made of.  As Evan passed down the street crowded with the beginnings of afternoon rush-hour traffic, he watched as the buildings gradually changed from broken, weather beaten low-rent housing to grandiose flats that bordered lush gardens in which the rich people walked their poodles.  

He was always amazed when he reminded himself that, not only could he afford to live in one of these places, but he could probably buy them out.  It gave him a sense of liberty, but at the same time he felt restricted by his old life.  The hovel in which he currently resided had been the end of one life and the beginning of another.  He had gone from one life of darkness to the next, from death and war and mutilation on one end to loneliness and despair and destitution on the other.  He had traveled back to this world to which he had thought he would never return, to this world that for so many years had treated him with cruelty and cold indifference.  It was where he belonged, now.  Out of the spotlight.  Out of the hair of everyone whom he had caused misery and pain.  Awash in a sea of people who didn't know him or particularly care about him, as long as he paid his rent.  That was where he belonged.  He longed for that kind of life, so he'd run.  He had run all the way to this world just to become famous again.  It seemed his lot in life to be famous, but he was determined not to live like it.  He didn't deserve to live like it.  And he didn't want to.

As a celebrity, he was expected to buy one of those huge flats in the city; he was expected to have a dog and a wife and kids and drugs that he abused for the sake of publicity.  To get out of jail with his influence.  To live a normal celebrity life.  Which is why he didn't.  He had destroyed their perceptions of celebrity when they couldn't find him, couldn't watch him day and night or send love letters or hate mail to his home address.  Because none of them would ever think to look for him in a fallen down shack.  He liked it that way, and intended to keep it so.  He had never lived up to people's expectations as a celebrity in his youth and found old habits to die hard.  

The coffee shop that Evan frequented was located on the intersection of two prosperous streets.  It signaled the end of the rich residential area and the beginning of a wealthy shopping district.  _Edgar Allen's was a traditional coffee haus; a place, where, by day, the rich women stopped for a rest after walking their dogs in the park and sipped lattes to trendy recorded piano music, and by night the university students staged beat poets and local bands.  The bohemian-wannabe youth gathered there and ignored frothy cappuccino mugs the size of the North Sea to socialize and listen to music.  _

Evan loved to come here right about this time of evening—about six o'clock—as the well-to-do women left to direct their kitchen staff to dinner and the younger crowd filtered in.  Not being too late at night, smaller children—well, ages ranging from about eleven to seventeen—would come and lounge in the comfortable couches and armchairs to talk, play games, and, during the school year, do homework.  There was even a fireplace that crackled merrily from across the kitchens.  It had taken Evan a good three years to realize exactly why he loved it so much.  

Now, as he entered the spacious yet inviting shop, an almost empty room greeted him.  As the summer season came to an end, it was too hot and muggy for many people to want a cup of steamy coffee, especially right at dinnertime.  Evan knew that it would probably be another hour or so before the beatniks set up their drums and the university crowd drifted in.  

The sweet aroma of freshly ground caffeinated bliss took him over as Evan approached the counter and ordered a tall black coffee.  He took a seat in one of two squashy armchairs facing each other by the window.  Slowly he prised the lid from the paper cup and took a long, decadent swallow, savoring every drop as the steamy bitter liquid coursed down his throat.  Surely this was what life was all about.  Evan set his coffee down, momentarily forgetting it, and flipped his notebook open to the abandoned project of earlier that afternoon.  

_Jenny flung open the door to her ninth-floor apartment and slammed it behind her, not caring that it was past two in the morning or if old Mrs. Jenkins down the hall lost a minute or two of beauty sleep.  It had been a terrible night.  Due to her "accident", she had been given special permission to come to work at odd hours, often arriving at seven or eight in the evening after everybody had left, and leaving early in the morning, before even the neighbourhood bakers awoke to start the morning bread.  She often passed down badly reputed streets at horrid hours of the morning, and had seen the beggar who had tried to rob her many times.  An agreement of sorts had been worked out, or so she thought.  If she didn't call the cops on him, he left her alone.  The same went for all of the other homeless folk on those streets.  She was as regular there as they were.  He must have been exceptionally drunk tonight.  _

Evan was startled out of his writing as he noticed several things.  First, a redheaded woman had just sat herself down across the shop from him and was now reading a book.  His book, in fact; his latest.  He knew that it was his latest because he could see his name printed on the cover from across the spacious shop.  For the release of his sixth novel, the publishers had deemed his name more profitable than the title or subject of his book.  Therefore, EVAN JAMESON was blazoned across three quarters of the page.  The title—_Carpe Diem—was printed in tiny white letters underneath his name; the only reason he could tell the title of the book, in fact, was because he had written it.  He had the urge to get up, go over and talk to her, get into yet another discussion of "what the author was __really trying to say with this passage" with the unwitting redhead, when he noticed a second occurrence:  a blonde (bleached, obviously, not natural) sauntered over and lightly touched the back of his chair, turning his attention.   _

"Do you mind if I sit here?" she asked in a throaty voice.  "I can't seem to find another seat."  Evan looked around bewilderedly at the rest of the practically empty shop, but said nothing, grunting instead an invitation with a slight gesture of his hand.   In one graceful swoop, she sat, propped her cappuccino across from his notebook, and pulled out, as far as he could tell by the cover, a trashy romance novel.  For several minutes she read silently, not seeming to care at all that she had intruded on the person across from her.  Evan continued to write another word or two, but couldn't concentrate with that blonde woman across from him.  

What if she knew who he was?  Or, even worse, what if she knew who he had been?  Not in this life, but in his past.  What if she was one of _them:  another admirer, or even worse, a reporter?  From force of habit, he raked his hand through his hair, causing his fringe to move.  At the movement, the blonde woman glanced up from her book and did a slight double-take.  One that Evan had grown very used to in his lifetime—both of them.  _

"Gosh," she said.  _Oh, very innocent, that, he thought, his suspicions still raised.  "Where on Earth did you get that awful scar?"_

"Erm…car wreck," he said evasively.  At her concerned yet bewildered look, he changed the subject.  "Nice weather we're having, isn't it?"

She arched an overly-plucked eyebrow and gave a sardonic smile.  "Sure, if you like the rainforest without the plants.  Personally, I think it makes my hair a bit frizzy.  What's with the notebook, anyway?  You look too old for a university student.  My name is Deborah, by the way.  You can call me Debbie if you like."  She reached a delicately manicured hand across the small table; he took it lightly.

"Well, Debbie," he said easily, suddenly slipping from his shy, unassuming nature, to one of those suave characters in his books.  One of those that usually ended up dead in his universe.  But, boy was it fun.   "I'm Evan.  I guess you could say that I'm an aspiring writer.  I like to write things down in my notebook.  It isn't as permanent as when you see the work in print, I guess you could say.  You can always erase the pencil.  And it has a more personal touch.  I don't know," he shrugged slightly.  "I guess it sounds silly out loud, but it makes perfect sense to me."  

"Well, _Evan, you'll have to get yourself a new name if you want to be a writer," she said with another one of those coy, saucy smiles.  He threw her a politely questioning glance, though he knew what she was probably going to say.  It was a common joke that he heard when he was caught writing in public.  "Everybody already knows that Evan Jameson has cornered that market.  Maybe you should use a flashier…what's it called, you know…when someone pretends to be someone else?"_

"A pseudonym?"

"No, that's not it.  A pet name or something."

"Pen name?"

"Oh.  Whatever.  Anyway, you should get something flashier than that Evan Jameson bloke.  He's really overblown, anyway."

"Really?" he smiled.  "How so?"

"Oh, I don't know.  I haven't actually _read any of his books, but everyone says that he's so mysterious and all that rubbish.  I think that there's better reasons to read books than just because you've never seen the bloke.  And all those rumors, you know, about the scars and stuff in all those books he writes," she lowered her voice and leaned conspiratorially closer.  "They say that he's psychotic."_

Evan stifled a snigger and looked at the girl as if he were genuinely surprised and interested.  _My character would play with her a bit, he thought.  __And then take her off to her flat, have sex with her, and never see her again.  That's what Christoph would do anyway, or Quentin.  Of course, that was usually in the line of pulling off some secret spy mission or another.  And, he sighed inwardly.  __And that was fiction.  This is reality.  Still, I can__ play with her a bit.  I just won't go too far._

            He leaned closer in to her as well, mimicking her hushed tone.  "Is that so?  Psychotic, you say?"

            She nodded deliciously, as if savoring a luscious treat:  the further defamation of an innocent man's character.  "Stark raving mad.  Probably why he doesn't want to be seen by people.  He's running from the loony bin, you know.  They've been trying to catch him for years, now.  He has to hide in a different safe house every night, sort of like that Hitler fellow.  He's just trying to get enough money with his books to buy them off so they'll leave him alone."  She nodded with complete certainty, as if this was accepted scientific fact.  

            This time, in character or not, he couldn't help himself; he let a huge guffaw.  "You're mad, woman!  _You should be in the bloody loony bin!  How do you figure all that, anyway?"  The woman looked slightly hurt, but didn't seem to be entirely put off.  She began to say something in her defense, but Evan didn't hear her.  He was suddenly aware of that woman again, the redhead across the shop.  She had lowered her book, __his book, and was now staring at him with a look of sudden, unmistakable recognition in her face, no doubt attracted by his raucous laugh.  The worst part was, he shared the recognition.  __No, it can't be her.  Not after all this time, not like this.  Not her.  _

            Quickly, feigning that he hadn't noticed the redhead, with a tone as nonchalant as he could muster, he turned to his blonde counterpart.  "Would you like to get out of here, grab a bite to eat?"  Before she could answer yes or no, he lightly took her by the elbow and guided her out of the building, giving her just enough time to gather her trashy romance novel and purse before whisking out of the shop, ignoring the indignant stare that followed them from the direction of the redhead. 

~*~

            Several hours later, Evan lay alone in his grungy apartment building, reflecting on the afternoon's events.  After he'd left the café with Debbie, they had made their way to a trendy, expensive restaurant of her choosing.  They had ordered appetizers and their small talk found its way back to careers.   

            "What do you do with yourself, then?" he had asked, trying to keep conversation up.  She had been less than pleased when he had hurried her away from the coffee shop, and was hoping that she would soon forget if she could talk about herself for long enough.  It seemed to be working.

"I…" she had paused, as if trying to remember a rehearsed speech.  "I'm an acquisition manager for an estate just north of here," she said, finally.  

_Ah, he had thought.  __She's one of those rich wives who spend all day "acquiring" expensive goods while her husband spends all day slaving to earn the money that she throws away.  I wonder how often she picks up random men in cafés?  Outwardly, however, he just smiled politely and did not question further, instead letting the job description linger in the air and drifting off into the recesses of his own universe.  This silence seemed to make Debbie uncomfortable, so she pressed on to him.  _

"So, what do you do with yourself when you're not aspiring to write?" she had asked, her fingers lightly tracing invisible circles over the table, occasionally brushing innocently against Evan's.  He might have found this very exciting if his mind had not been back at the coffee shop, where the redhead sat with his book.  The evening ended right then in a series of quick yet unflattering events, as he was first caught not paying rapt attention to her.  She had had to snap her fingers in front of his face several times before he came back to himself and then had to have the question repeated.  The fingers of her other hand had long ago stopped their seductive sketching on the table and were now drumming away impatiently on the glass surface.  When Evan answered that he was a night janitor at a local law firm, the blonde had, without another word, left the restaurant as suddenly as she had appeared at the café.  He had paid and left without a single regret.

Presently, a buzzing noise brought him out of his memories.  Where on Earth was that coming from?  It stopped.  He let a sigh of relief when, to his annoyance, the buzzing started up again.  After a full minute of this, he finally realized that somebody was ringing the intercom from down below, wanted his permission to come up to his flat.  Nobody had ever, in his full nine years of living in that hovel, wanted to gain access to his flat.  He located the intercom on the wall next to the door _(hmm, never noticed that__ before!) and pressed the little white button, leaning forward and yelling into the speaker._

"YES?!"  Oops.  Too loud.

"Umm…Evan Jameson?"  The voice that answered back was feminine, hesitant.  Familiar.

A pause.  Who could possibly know that he was here?  Who he was?  "…Who wants to know?"

"I…I found your notebook.  At the café?"  Another pause.  She must be expecting him to answer.  None came to his lips.  "Umm…it…the notebook…said to bring it here if it was lost."   Another pause.  She was waiting for an answer.  He was thinking.  Indeed, he wrote his name and address on all his notebooks in case they were lost.  He had never lost one before; he usually didn't want to risk a fanatic finding out who he was and where he lived.  He was usually very paranoid about that.  In fact, in all the hubbub of the afternoon, he hadn't even realized that he'd left it.  Why did that voice sound so familiar?  Finally, "Are you there?"  He'd forgotten about her. 

"Yes, yes.  I'm here,"  _Best to end it now, before something bad happens.  "Thank you so very much for your kindness.  You can leave it on the mat.  I'll get it later," he said dismissively.  __The conversation is over.  Leave me alone._

"…Sir?"

"What now?"

"Begging your pardon, but I…well, I'm a very big fan of yours, and I did go an hour or two out of my way to get this notebook to you…"  Another pause.  She must have expected him to cotton on right then.  He didn't.  "…And, well, I was wondering, if it wouldn't be too much trouble, if you would consider coming down yourself?"

"I'm terribly sorry about the inconvenience.  You could have mailed it to me, you know.  Please, just leave it on the stoop."  He winced at his tone of voice, cold and indifferent.  Was this what hermitdom had done to him over the years?  Made him bitter and uncaring towards a kind woman?  

Her answer sounded strained, probably choked with tears.  "Now I know why you live like this."  Another pause, this time for dramatic effect.  "You're a horrible man and nobody wants to be around you!  How can anybody so cruel write so beautifully?  This is what I think about your work!!"  A ripping noise.  This was not good.

He was dumbfounded, and a panic of what might be happening to his story filled him.  "Please, I'm sorry," he begged.  "Don't cry, please!  Come upstairs.  I…I don't know what I was thinking.  All these years…I'm just not used to people anymore.  Just…come up."  He felt a cold dread clamp on his heart as soon as he said it.  Why?  He had just had perfectly good conversation with that…that…Debbie earlier that afternoon.  He had, of course, just been playing with her, but why would he care so much more about this mysterious woman?  Why would this be so much different?  Why was his heart beating like that?  _Why did her voice sound so familiar?  It can't be…_

There were muffled steps on the stairs, gradually getting louder.  They stopped right outside of his door, pausing awkwardly, hesitantly.  Finally, she knocked lightly.  He sat on the edge of his couch, debating whether or not to open the door.  He could hide.  That was silly, though.  Just plain childish.  She knew he was up here; there was no way out now.  He walked slowly to the door, sure that she could hear his steps just as he heard hers.  _Hmm, he thought.  __The paint is peeling.  I should repaint the door.  _

She knocked again, a bit more impatiently this time.  He undid the chain and drew back the bolt.  This was it.  The door creaked as it opened, and Evan suddenly had to fight the urge to faint, or throw up, or both.  Luckily, he did neither.

"It's you!" they both cried.  Her auburn hair dangled free, covering the side of her face, covering _it.    _

"Harry!"  The tears poured down her cheeks as she rushed forward and grabbed him around the waist in a tight hug.   "God, I knew it was you!  I knew it!  How could you?  How could you do this to us?  How could you leave us like that?  We were so worried!  Mum's going to kill you when she sees you again!"  She looked up into his eyes, all of those thoughts burning into him from those liquid brown eyes, but as she did so, a lock of hair fell away from her right cheek, exposing a light pink scar from her temple to her cheekbone.  A curse scar.  What he had done.  Why he lived his life like this.  Why he ran away.  How could he own up to that?  How could act like nothing had happened?

"I…" he gulped.  "I don't know what you're talking about.  I don't know this Harry that you are speaking of."  He tried to impassively pry the crying redhead from his chest, to pretend that he didn't want more than anything for her just to hold on to him like that.  "Please, leave, miss.  This is very inappropriate."  This was killing him.  Why?  Why fight?  Why was he even trying?  What was wrong with him?  She knew…they _both knew that it was a lie…why try, when giving in was so easy?_

Her head snapped up, anger burning now in those beautiful eyes of hers.   "You…you don't…"  She seemed as though she were trying to swallow something very large whole.  "You don't _know?  You…little…git.  It's here, Harry!  I saw you!  You saw me!  I know it, and so do you!  IT'S RIGHT HERE!"  She waved the notebook that had been concealed in her bag in his face.  "IT'S RIGHT HERE, YOU STUPID GIT!  Would you care to read it, or would you like me to?  I'd be very happy to enlighten you."  _

"Please, don't.  Please, I don't know what you're talking about.  Please, Ginny, don't say it."

"_He would pay," she recited.__  "__Ginny clenched her fists.  Yes, Harry Potter would pay for the lives he had destroyed."  She looked back at him, clearly seething.__  "I'm sorry.  Is there some point that I missed where THIS IS NOT BLOODY YOU, HARRY?"  The tears streamed down her face unchecked; the sobs wracked her body so that she had to sit to keep from collapsing.  Slowly the sobs ebbed and became soft whimpers.  She looked at him with eyes like brown pools and said softly, "You did destroy our lives, Harry.  Not by anything you did in the war, but by leaving us.  I don't know what you were running from, but we all died the day you left.  We always thought that you were so strong, so brave, but now I know what a coward you are."  She picked herself off the floor and straightened herself, walking calmly towards him.  For a moment he thought that she was going to strike him, but instead she did something that hurt much, much worse.  She reached up and lightly brushed back his fringe, touching that accursed scar on his forehead.  "This is you, Harry."  Then she left.  _

Evan didn't know what was wrong.  He wanted to run to her, to hold her, to reclaim his former life, but he couldn't.  He had seen them; the wounds that he inflicted on her, both physically and mentally.  War was hell, but the aftermath was even worse.    He couldn't move or speak, or stop her as she walked out the door.  She left the notebook, open to that page, to that passage, lying on the floor.


	2. Of Bedspreads and Beatings

A/N: This story was inspired by Blue's Just This? On Fanfiction.net. Be warned: it's slash, but I'm sure it's well written.  
  
-The Frog  
  
Part two:  
  
An unusually quiet Ginny entered the Leaky Cauldron from the streets of Muggle London, nearly an hour late for a meeting with her youngest brother and his wife. The stale air of the crowded pub greeted her, its odor a delicate mix of ale, butterbeer, and Prometheus Incindron's Multi- Scented Cigars (Changes flavor with every puff!), not to mention the smoky scent of the burning torches combined with the sweat of dozens of witches, wizards, hags, ogres, and other magical beings who welcomed cold refreshment on a muggy summer's day. While overall repugnant, the smell was so familiar after such a strange day that Ginny found it wholesome and inviting.  
  
Weaving her way through the motley crowd, careful to avoid anyone with a large club or too many warts, Ginny soon spotted her party in a corner booth towards the back of the pub. Ron, at least, was not starving in her absence; he had already tucked into a large pile of what looked to be chicken legs. "Ginny!" he greeted in mid-chew, earning himself a reproachful glare from his wife. "It's almost ten-thirty! Where-" Suddenly, a piece of chicken flew from his mouth and struck a couple at a table across from them. The couple looked disgusted, but appeared not to want to pick a fight with someone of Ron's considerable height.  
  
"Ron! That's disgusting! How many times do I have to tell you not to talk with your mouth open? And yelling in a restaurant like that! Why do I even leave the house with you? Honestly, I don't know HOW you can sit here in public and.Ginny! You look as though you've seen a ghost! Come, sit down. Where have you been?"  
  
Ron, rolling his eyes, ignored the comments about his behavior; this had been an ongoing argument since they had been eleven. "Hermione, she has seen a ghost. There's one right over there, next to the bar. See? Wearing a raincoat?"  
  
"It's a figure of speech, Ron."  
  
"I'm just saying that there is a ghost right over there and that I see no reason why seeing one should provoke any kind of reaction, negative or positive." He grinned, winking at Ginny, who was barely paying attention.  
  
"Honestly, Ron, you're impossible! I was just saying that she looked as if something had scared her!"  
  
"But that ghost isn't scary! Look! He's doing coin tricks! In one ear and out the other!"  
  
"It's a figure of speech, Ron!" growled Hermione through gritted teeth.  
  
"I was just saying."  
  
Throughout the scene, Ginny sat staring at the linoleum table covering, barely hearing a word spoken between the couple. The memory of the battle that she had recently fled still filled her memory. With a final roll of her eyes and another exasperated look, the fight appeared to be over and Hermione had turned her attention towards Ginny. "Anyhow, now that you're here, I suppose we could order some real food-" she broke off. "What happened, Ginny? You look as if." she glared reproachfully at Ron. ".you look as if something spooked you. Why are you so late? Are you all right? Are you sick? Molly would positively kill me if I didn't look after you properly."  
  
"That's not your job, Hermione, and Ginny resents the implication that she can't take care of herself.don't you, Ginny?" Ron was trying to cheer her up, she knew, but right now his comments were not appreciated. ".Don't you? Are you OK?"  
  
Ginny continued to stare at the table, not wanting to meet their questioning eyes. Should she tell them? Finally, after all these years, they seemed almost back to normal. Aside from her, Ron and Hermione had been the most affected by Harry's disappearance. None of them had known what to do when he had left. He had always been the backbone, the supporter, and then he was just gone. None of them could ever quite forgive him for that. They all might have thought him dead except for one simple note left on his bed at the Burrow the summer after seventh year, after the war had ended: Gone Fishin'. He had never returned. Telling Ron and Hermione might bring back all of the horrible memories, might ruin all that they had worked so hard to forget. Then again, if they ever found out what she was keeping from them about Harry, she might never live for a second confrontation with him. And there would be a second. This was not over by a long shot.  
  
When Ginny looked back up at her companions, it was with tired resignation. "I saw Harry today," she said finally.  
  
"What?!" Ron, who had taken another large bite of chicken, spluttered. Hermione didn't even try to act indignant. "Where?"  
  
"At a Muggle café I like to go to. He was." She felt a dark look cross her face as she tried to quell the anger welling in her stomach. "He was with another woman. They seemed quite happy, in fact," she said bitterly.  
  
"Are you sure it was him?"  
  
"Oh, no, Hermione," mocked Ron. "Because there are so many men running about with large scars on their forehead!"  
  
"I don't need your sarcasm, Ron!"  
  
"Shut it, both of you!" They both shut up. "I know it was him. He recognized me, too, though I don't think he thought it was possible, and he left the shop. But, I found out everything. I know where he lives, what he does for a living, everything. I talked to him, confronted him, and he was just." Ginny swallowed, remembering his cruel words, the indifferent way in which he had pried her body from his. "He was just horrible. He denied that he knew a Harry Potter, but it was hard for him to deny that bloody scar on his forehead." She shook her head. "He wants to be left alone, that's for sure."  
  
Ron's face coloured bright red in anger. "I can't accept that," he said brusquely. "Where is he? Where does he work? What does he do? Where does he live? I want to pay that git a visit, tell him exactly what I think of him deserting us." In lieu of an answer, Ginny pulled a thick paperback book out of her purse and tossed it on the table. Ron scoffed. "She's going as batty as Hermione, that one. Pulling books out of her arse to answer every little problem that comes up."  
  
Hermione's eyebrows, however, shot up. "Carpe Diem. Jameson is a Muggle author, isn't he? He's quite good. I've read most of his work-it's very fascinating, especially his fixation with scars." Her voice trailed off as the realization hit home. "Of course!" She whispered and smacked herself upside the head. "Why didn't I see it before? Evan Jameson. Lily Evans. James's son. That's it.that explains it all.all of the mystery, the intrigue.avoiding public.there are no photos of him.no biography.everyone thinks that he's crazy! But he's not.he's just Harry!"  
  
Ron snorted indignantly. "Wait, you mean to tell me that Harry.Harry Potter. is a world-famous writer? I'm sorry, but it just isn't possible. I did Divination homework with him for five years, and while he may be creative, believe me-he's no fair shakes as a writer!" LOL!  
  
"Was no fair shakes you mean," Hermione argued. "I'm sure the war gave him a lot to write about," she added, quietly. "Now that I think about it, all of his books closely paralleled things that happened in the war, but embellished, with little twists to make them sound like Muggle spy missions."  
  
"His next book is about me," Ginny whispered. "About a girl-Jenny- with a scar down the right side of her face." Hermione gave her a wondering look, but didn't need to voice the question on her mind-How do you know-to have Ginny answer it. "It was how I found him. He left something at the café, a notebook. It was the beginning of a story. It had his address on the front. That was how I knew where to look for him after he left."  
  
"Well," said Hermione, shifting into Professor Mode. "He's obviously projecting his feelings of loss, resentment, and hostility from the war into his books. That's why they're so popular. People like to read about emotions they can identify with in a setting that is unreal and much, much worse than their own. It gives them a sense of comfort to know that their lives aren't so bad, after all. And Harry is the epitome of all that can go wrong in life: an orphan with horrible guardians, who, at a very early age, lost his godfather, his mentor, and, presumably, his girlfriend in a war that he and he alone could end. It's no wonder he's famous again."  
  
"I don't care about his feelings about the bloody war!" Ron thundered, his face a shade of purple that traditionally belonged to an eggplant. "We all went through it, we all survived, we all moved on. Tell me where to find him so that I can knock some bloody sense into him and bring him back where he belongs!"  
  
"No, Ron." Ginny's answer was quiet, obviously strained.  
  
"But you can't honestly say that you don't want him back! I'm sure with a properly placed hex, he'll see reason!" Ron's voice was now almost pleading, the blind rage gone. Ginny knew that behind his anger was quiet desperation. He wanted to see his friend, to know he was safe, to have his buddy around that always made him laugh, that always made him feel good about himself, and she agreed with him, but refused to hunt Harry down if he didn't want to be found.  
  
"No, Ron," she said again, gently. "Obviously, he's happy. He doesn't want to be found. Believe me, I want to see him again more than you could ever possibly imagine. I've never missed him so much as I do right now, knowing where he is and knowing that he just doesn't want to come back, but we can't make him do anything. We just have to let him come to us if he wants to." But Ginny had no intention of waiting. Tomorrow, she would go see him again.  
  
~*~  
  
Ginny flung open the door to her tiny cottage and slammed it behind her, not caring that it was past midnight or if old Mrs. Jerkins next door lost a minute or two of beauty sleep. It had been a terrible night. Her cottage, the best that her position as Coordinator of Charitable Affairs in the Ministry of Magic could afford, was a two-bedroom deal that she shared with her roommate, Sophia, in a tiny village just south of Hogsmeade.  
  
The village was comprised mostly of Muggles, but a large enough wizarding population existed there to provide a few well-hidden shops with the supplies all wizarding families needed. For anything else one might desire, Hogsmeade was a short walk or even shorter trip by Floo powder.  
  
Though old, her small house had a homey, comfortable feel, thanks, most likely, to the feminine occupants. A colorful garden surrounded the house with flowers of every kind, magical and otherwise. The windows stayed open at all times during the summer, sending a cool breeze carrying the scent of daylilies or night-blooming jasmine, depending on the time.  
  
Sophia, Ginny's roommate, was a short, snub-nosed girl with long black hair and an olive complexion. She had been in Ginny's year at Hogwarts, a Ravenclaw with an obsession for the boys. Ginny often came home to find a hanger on Sophia's doorknob and the deafening silence that came only from a noise-blocking charm. She would just shake her head, turn on the WWN in her room, and read a book, often a Jameson. Tonight was one such night, but Ginny didn't feel like reading. She got into bed, the same four-poster canopy bed that she had grown up with at The Burrow, taken from her room to furnish her new home. For the longest time, she stared at the top of the canopy, remembering, just remembering. So many times she had thought about Harry at night in this bed, when her family was asleep and her thoughts were her own.  
  
Since she was ten years old, she had loved him, and since then her love had grown and changed in many, many ways, but still burned strong just the same. She and Harry had shared their first kiss on this bed, during the summer after her fourth year, his fifth. They had made love for the first time on this bed the next summer, as the rest of the family had gone out to play or watch Quidditch. Ginny had been sick at the time, and Harry had stayed to see if she "needed anything". The summer after that, he had left her on that bed, when times were at their worst.  
  
With these thoughts, Ginny fell into an uneasy sleep and dreamt of him, the way he had touched her, how he smelled, how he kissed, how he looked at her in times that, even under the darkness of Voldemort's reign, were the happiest of her life. She tossed and turned in her bed as Harry's loving gaze turned into a reproachful, hateful glare and the background became Harry's broken-down shanty of an apartment. He repeated those words, those terrible words, "I don't know what you're talking about. I don't know this Harry that you are speaking of. Please, leave, Miss. This is very inappropriate." They swirled around and around, thickening the air about her, cutting into her like a knife. She couldn't breathe. The scar on her temple started to tingle, to burn. She sat straight up with a jerk, causing someone beside her to gasp in the dark. Oh, God, there's someone in my room!  
  
"Ginny!"  
  
"Harry!" Harry? "But.how did you.what are you.God, Harry! Is it really.?"  
  
"Yeah," he breathed. All was black and dark except for a dim light coming from the tip of his wand. She saw his silhouette sit down in the dim light, felt the bed compress. Oh, God, he's real. He's actually here. Felt him cup her face in his hands. "Yeah, it's really me."  
  
"What are you doing here? How did you know where to find me?"  
  
"I just wanted to see you again." He traced her the tiny scar on her face with an agonizingly light finger; it tingled under his touch, for he was the one who had put it there all those years ago. She had got in the way of a curse meant for a Death Eater and had almost died for it. He had never forgiven himself. He must have been touching it as she slept; that had been no dream. "You know, that was how I last saw you, lying unconscious in this bed with that gash down the side of your face." She could hear him swallow thickly in the dark. "I thought you were dead. I'm sorry. I thought that I had killed you. I'm so sorry." His voice cracked and Ginny could feel, as she cupped her hands to his face, the tears that streamed from his eyes.  
  
"It wasn't your fault, Harry," she whispered. "It wasn't. And I'm here. I'm right here. I'm not dead. I've been here, waiting for you. Just you." She spoke as she would to a small child who had wandered off in the market, lost and scared and found again. She could feel his breath coming in ragged gasps as he tried to control his emotions, emotions that he probably hadn't shown in nine years.  
  
In the almost complete darkness, Ginny never saw, never even felt him move closer until his lips were on hers. A feeling of warmth spread through her entire body. This feeling, so wonderful, so familiar, and yet so completely alien, engulfed her. For one, long, short, marvelous, terrible moment, the world stopped and everything but the two of them ceased to exist. Finally, though all too soon, they broke off and Ginny smiled, truly smiled, for the first time in years. This feeling lasted for all of two seconds.  
  
"But.Harry.what about-" she almost hated to ask, to ruin the beautiful moment the two had just shared, but her conscience, as it all too often did, got the better of her. "What about your girlfriend?"  
  
"My girlfriend?" Harry's bewilderment was so evident that, even in the darkness, Ginny could almost see it etched across his face.  
  
"The girl I saw you with at the café today. The one you were joking around with. She was your girlfriend, right?"  
  
Harry snorted. "Her? No. Not in the least little bit. She sat down across from me and proceeded, through no influence on my part, to try and persuade me that Evan Jameson belongs in a loony bin," he snorted again. "Honestly, I don't think she ever had a brain in her head to begin with. I think that I got your attention when I was laughing at her. Then, when I saw you, I panicked, and just left with her. She is nothing. Nothing." He sighed, then kissed her on the nose, probably for reassurance. Her warm, tingly feeling returned, this time with no guilt attached. "Besides," he added. "Why would I want anyone when you are right here?"  
  
This question niggled something at the back of Ginny's mind and a feeling of cold, hard anger crept into her heart. The warmth that he provided only seconds ago vanished, and suddenly his lips held less interest for her in what they might do than what questions they might answer. Her back stiffened, and she felt herself move away from him. "I don't know, Harry," she said, a little more accusingly than she may have liked. "Why would you? Why would you leave? Even if you thought I was dead, why didn't you stay for the funeral? Why didn't you at least stay to say goodbye? Why didn't you stay and help Ron and Hermione?" The tears started. She couldn't help it; they just did. Ginny's anger mounted with every word she said and all of the pain and rage she had felt towards him for all those years poured forth. "They're worried sick about you, you know. They still are. I told them that I saw you today. I'm surprised Ron hasn't beaten down your door yet. Why did you pretend to not know me? Why did you pretend not to care? Why, Harry? WHY? After all these years, that is the only question I've ever wanted to ask you: Why." She furiously wiped at the tears streaming down her face and hiccoughed. "God, I am so sick of crying over you, Harry! I'm sick of it! So is everyone else! Why can't you just make up your mind?" Strong arms enveloped her and she fell, helpless, into them.  
  
"I'm sorry," he whispered into her hair, kissing the top of her head. To her chagrin, a tiny circle of pleasant electricity hummed where his lips had been. Her tears soaked through his shirt and she hoped that he felt every one of them like acid on his chest. "I was completely selfish. I did say goodbye, Ginny.it was the most painful thing that I've ever done, but I did it and didn't want to stick around and do it again at a funeral. I regret more than ever that I didn't. As for Ron and Hermione, they had each other. After you, I had no one. Sirius, Dumbledore, Hagrid, Remus.all gone. And then you." he paused, swallowing; the memories cut into Ginny almost as much as they did him. "You left and I had nothing. If you had been there, I would have had the will to keep going, but without you I had nothing." He drew her more tightly into his arms; he seemed to need her as much as she needed him.  
  
Her breathing eased and she stopped crying, but so many questions burned in her mind, so much to say, so much to hear. "But what about today? What about.well, everything? What about that?"  
  
She felt his head move back and forth on top of hers, shaking. "I don't know. I think I was scared. It really had been so long since I had last talked to someone, other than that tramp Debbie, that I didn't know what to do. You were supposed to be dead, remember? And then I just went crazy. It was like seeing a ghost, but much, much worse. I think I thought I had forgotten how to love someone."  
  
"That's not possible, Harry."  
  
"I was afraid it might be." He drew a shuddering breath. "But I was wrong, luckily. I came to my senses in time." She could hear the smirk in his voice. He kissed her on the head again.  
  
"OK, I'll give you that," she conceded, leaning into him, drawing strength from his comfort. "But why now? Why in the middle of the night? In my room? While I was sleeping? While I looked like this?" She was sure her hair looked a mess.  
  
"I couldn't wait, I had to see you before I lost my nerve. I lay in my crappy bed tonight, thinking about you, about the betrayal I had seen in your eyes, about how I had acted, and I couldn't stand it. I had to make things right, and if I waited until the morning, I knew that I would talk myself out of it." He laughed quietly. "And I can't exactly see you, can I?"  
  
With a flick of his wand, the room suddenly flooded with light. They both winced, the brightness overwhelming. Ginny rubbed her eyes. Before her, on her powder blue bedspread with the ugly faded yellow flowers, sat Harry, the messy-haired, glasses-wearing, scar-bearing boy that she had fallen in love with eighteen years ago. Now, he was a little older, a little more care-worn, and had a few more lines on his face, but he was still the impossibly scrawny boy who saved her from Voldemort God-knows-how-many- times. With a trembling hand, he lightly touched the side of her cheek. "You're even more beautiful than I remembered. I didn't think that was possible," he whispered.  
  
Ginny snorted. "I was dead last time you saw me, remember? There was so much room for improvement, I'm not surprised I look better."  
  
"No," he shook his head. "No, when I remember you, I always remember you at the Yule Ball, in my sixth year. That was the single most perfect night of my life. You were so beautiful, so perfect. I didn't think that there was any room for improvement at all, but I was wrong. Again." He kissed her on the lips so softly that she barely felt it; it was maddening. "You keep doing that to me, don't you?"  
  
"Hmm?" Words were no longer rational. They had no place for her. Harry had made amends and now she just wanted his lips on hers; now she just wanted to be with him, to begin making up for lost time.  
  
"You keep proving me wrong," he kissed her again. "I was so stupid to go away, to stay away for so long. I'm-" he was silenced as Ginny kissed him firmly on the lips.  
  
"Harry?"  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Shut up. Apology accepted, just.just shut up." She kissed him long and deep and, with another flick of Harry's wand, the lights switched off again.  
  
~*~  
  
Light broke over the east, lighting up the gardens and bathing the countryside in pure, clean, golden light. Every flower petal was illuminated like sun through stained glass, and dewdrops sparkled like tiny diamonds on the tips of every grass blade. It was a glorious morning and Harry and Ginny were up to enjoy it. They strolled calmly around the house grounds, through the woods that bordered Ginny's tiny cottage and up the street through the small, sleepy village, their hands clasped together with no thought of breaking any time soon. There was still so much to say, but for now, they were just happy to be together, walking side by side. Every now and then, with his other hand, Harry would take out his wand and perform simple spells; transfiguring a beetle into a button here, charming a rabbit's fur yellow there.  
  
He twirled his wand and looked at it incredulously as sparks flew from the tip. "I can't believe I can still remember how to use this thing," he marveled.  
  
"Like riding a broomstick, I guess. You never forget once you learn." A thought suddenly occurred to Ginny. "Why? Didn't you ever use magic in the Muggle world? You were allowed to, you know."  
  
"No-the only wooden stick Evan Jameson used was a pencil. I gave it all up cold turkey. It wasn't pleasant, I can tell you," he laughed. "I didn't remember how to cook for ages. Lived off of cold cereal and the like for months."  
  
They laughed and walked in companionable silence for a few moments. "So," Ginny began, wondering how best to broach the subject. "How was your fishing trip, then?"  
  
"You mean, what have I been doing with myself this whole time?"  
  
"I guess. Why fishing, though? I've always wondered that."  
  
She felt him hesitate slightly before heaving a sigh and beginning to speak. "Sirius promised me, a few days before he was killed, that once the war was over, we'd go fishing. Just me and him, the way fathers and sons were supposed to." A small, sad smile crept across his face, and Harry began to speak as though he were reliving it for himself, not for her. "I don't think he knew how to fish or anything, but I had mentioned that a lot of Muggle families did it. That, when I was little, I had always fantasized about a fishing trip with just me and my dad, the way Dudley and Uncle Vernon used to. We wouldn't do much on the trip-we'd just sit there on the lake and talk about stupid stuff like girls and share stories about the adventures we had with our friends at school and maybe, if we were lucky, we'd catch something.but that wasn't important. Sirius promised me that he would be there for me when my dad couldn't, to fulfill his godfatherly duties, but he never got a chance to. So I went alone. I sat on that lake for three weeks straight and just remembered. I remembered everything-every conversation, every adventure, every misadventure I'd had since starting Hogwarts. And I pretended that Sirius and my dad were there, like they were supposed to be. I think that, on some level, they were."  
  
Ginny squeezed his hand and smiled encouragingly. "They were, Harry. They always are."  
  
He squeezed gently back to let her know that he was all right. "Anyway, after that, I knew that I couldn't go back and face the world again, at least for a while. So I got a job as a night janitor at a law firm in London and rented that hideous flat that you saw with the few Galleons I had changed to Muggle money. During the day, I would sleep, and when I wasn't sleeping, I would lay there and just think about all of the horrible things. I would read some, but had a hard time finding anything that didn't remind me in some way or another of my past," he sighed, lost completely in the memory.  
  
"Then, one day about a year or so after everything, I was talking to the other janitor on duty, Marcus. I told him that I couldn't sleep because of some bad memories. He told me to write everything down in a notebook, on a napkin, anywhere. 'Just get them out,' he said. 'Once you get those thoughts down, your mind will be free for other things.' Sort of like Dumbledore's Pensieve, I guess. So I did it. I wrote down everything I could remember from the war, from our school days, from stories that other people had told me, everywhere.  
  
"I think I started to go crazy at that point and began to imagine them as if they hadn't happened to me, but to someone else in a completely different situation. I think that I wanted to believe that it was my imagination, not something that actually happened. Anyway, that's where my first novel came from. I'll never know exactly why, I sent it to a publisher and they loved it. After a while, I quit the janitor job and wrote full time, publishing under the name Evan Jameson.  
  
"I let the whole mystery run wild because, not only was it good for my career, but it threw everyone off. Those rumors started up, and I just let them spread. If everyone thought I was crazy, not many would come looking for me. I mean, everyone in the wizarding world knew who I was and that I'd disappeared. Even if Hermione was the only one, I knew someone would read one of my books and see my picture, or they would be in the book store while I was doing a signing or something, so I just didn't do any of it. I'm actually really surprised that Hermione didn't get it before now and come looking for me. I half-expected her or you or Ron to turn up at my doorstep every day for the longest time."  
  
"Would that have been so bad?"  
  
"I don't know anymore." They walked in silence for a while. The dusty road through the village ended, becoming little more than a trail and then just wide grass land; residential cottages became farther spaced apart until they, too ceased to exist. Wild woodland gradually began to take over and trees-oak, beech, and willow-became much more frequent. By now, the sun had fully risen and the day began to warm into the late summer heat that they were accustomed to.  
  
Ginny grinned to herself, a thought suddenly occurring to her. "You're one of my favorite authors, you know," she squeezed his hand, and he smiled softly.  
  
"Really? I remember that I saw you reading my book in the coffee shop. I was actually thinking of going over and talking to you when Debbie," he said her name with a sarcastic flair, "turned up."  
  
Ginny grinned. "Yeah? That could have been interesting. You know, your writing style always reminded me of you.always condescending towards the main character, even though he was the hero. I would read your books at night when I couldn't stop thinking about you. They made me feel like you were right there, talking to me." She snorted. "Forget Hermione, I'm surprised I didn't work it out sooner."  
  
Silence again. The day was beautiful; sun shone through the leaves of trees heavy with foliage-the season would soon turn to autumn and those leaves would turn beautiful colors and fall, carpeting the dense forest floor. She loved it here in autumn, and suddenly found herself hoping that Harry would be here to experience it with her. Harry kicked at a pinecone that lay, abandoned, on the forest floor. "So, Ron and Hermione are married, then?"  
  
Ginny nodded. "Yeah. Four years, now. It was beautiful," she smiled broadly at the memory. "Those two.I swear, they were in the middle of an argument at the altar over the color of his robes or some foolish nonsense, when the music started. They just looked deep in each other's eyes and you could see how madly in love they were. I think that they're the happiest when they're arguing. It gives them plenty of chances to make up." She cast her eyes to the ground, finding her own pinecone to kick at. "You were supposed to be the best man, you know. They waited for five years for you to come back just so that you could be at the wedding, to celebrate with us. Hermione was heartbroken, and that was nothing compared to Ron."  
  
"I'm sorry," Harry mumbled softly, though resolutely. Those words, coming from anyone else, would be meaningless, but when Ginny looked at his face, twisted with internal agony, she realized that his simple words were meant to convey the fact that he had no words to describe how deeply sorry he felt for missing the wedding, for missing everything.  
  
She sighed again and watched the sun filter through the trees for a moment or two before she brought up the inevitable. "So, what now?"  
  
"What do you mean?" He knew exactly what she meant, and she knew it.  
  
"Well, as much as I would like this to last forever-just you and me, with nobody else in the world knowing that you exist-we have to tell somebody. We have to tell Ron and Hermione. They at least still know you're somewhere out there, and after last night, Ron's going crazy. You know how he is."  
  
"Yeah, I know how he is." A slow smile spread across his face. "God, I miss him. And Hermione. You know, yesterday I thought that I would never be able to come back, but now I'm looking forward to seeing everyone again, to returning. For good, this time, I think."  
  
"Are you sure?"  
  
"Yeah. Yeah, I am."  
  
"You might not be in a couple hours."  
  
"Oh?"  
  
"We have a family dinner tonight at The Burrow, and you're invited."  
  
"But-"  
  
"You're going."  
  
"Oh, Christ."  
  
~*~  
  
The world was spinning, forever spinning as Harry shot past one grate after another, gradually speeding up until everything became a blur and he could no longer discern any space between the grates. He quickly tucked his elbow back in as it scraped against the wall beside him, which was rapidly passing him by. Harry's late breakfast heaved about in his stomach and threatened to spill out in a combination of nerves and motion sickness. As suddenly as it began, the spinning lurched to a violent stop and Harry was thrown out of the fireplace, landing unceremoniously at Ginny's feet. One thing I never missed about the wizarding world, Harry thought, and that's traveling by Floo powder.  
  
The Burrow was the same as it had ever been; even with the appointment of Arthur Weasley as Minister of Magic after the war and an exponential increase in salary, the living room had remained modest and friendly. The only telltale sign of their increased standard of living was, perhaps, a new rug where the old one had been faded and threadbare. The room itself was mercifully empty, but a raucous noise was coming from the kitchen. They were late. Everyone was already there.  
  
"All right there, Harry?" Ginny asked quietly, her face looking as anxious as Harry felt. Words momentarily failed him, so he simply nodded, the back of his throat feeling as though he had collectively swallowed every house's soot on the journey over. "Right, then," she offered her arm in the manner of an escort, "Let's go." Leaning almost completely on Ginny for support, Harry entered the kitchen. Everyone was there, plus a few people who had apparently been added over the years. Ron, the twins, and Charlie were involved in a lively discussion in which Harry, to his delight, could plainly discern the words, 'Bludger', 'Snitch', and 'Chudley Cannons'. Bill and Hermione were locked in a conversation with Mrs. Weasley, while Arthur and a chestnut-haired woman sitting next to Bill fussed over three little red-headed children who, Harry guessed, belonged to Percy and Penelope, sitting towards the end of the impossibly long table. The din was so incredible; it wasn't surprising that the two weren't heard coming in. Ginny took a deep breath, squeezed Harry's hand, and yelled over the noise, "Is there room for two more?"  
  
Heads snapped up, mouths dropped open, and utter silence descended upon the kitchen. Harry looked at the ceiling, the floor, the clock (which had four new golden hands), anywhere other than the table, shuffling from foot to foot. He was sure that everyone could hear his heart beating. The children looked bewildered, probably at the reaction caused by the strange man standing in the doorway with Aunt Ginny. A deafening hush reigned for an interminable two minutes. Then, with a loud scrape of his chair in the throbbing silence, Ron slowly rose from his seat and walked purposefully towards Harry and Ginny. Harry glanced at Ginny in a blind panic; Ron's face was unreadable. What is he going to do? I don't like this. I don't like this one bit. The tall redheaded man was now standing directly in front of him with a funny, almost pensive look on his face. What happened next happened so fast, Harry could barely register it before it was over.  
  
Ron pulled his arm back and swung at Harry, his fist connecting with a sickening crunch to Harry's face. Pain shot through his head, splitting his skull. Ginny screamed. Hermione leapt from the table, yelling Ron's name. Harry slumped to the floor, reeling from pain and shock. He didn't have to touch his hand to his throbbing nose to know that there was a stream of blood trickling from it, or that it was probably broken. He looked dizzily up, wondering why there were suddenly two Rons hulking over him instead of just one.  
  
Slowly, very slowly, the two fuzzy Rons stopped spinning and focused into only one, though this one was just as large, just as frightening as the others. Ron was breathing hard from his nose, glaring at Harry with hatred, anger seething from every pore. That's it. He's going to kill me, thought Harry, staring up groggily from his position on the floor. Of all the times I imagined him doing this, I never actually expected it to happen. Of everything I've been through, I'm going to be finished off by my best mate.  
  
Ron moved forward, as if in slow motion, bending down to reach Harry with the rest of the family standing shocked into place behind him. He grabbed Harry around the shoulders and stood him up, firmly supporting his back so he couldn't fall, couldn't move. Couldn't run. He looked deep into Harry's eyes and, to his amazement, there was understanding there. Ron's face suddenly broke into a wide grin and he laughed.  
  
"Blimey, it's good to see you again, Harry!" Ron reached around with the arm that wasn't helping to hold him up and embraced him, thumping him on the back. "Sorry about that. I've just been promising myself since the day you left that I would sock you the next time I saw you," he said when he released Harry, gesturing to his face. "No hard feelings, I hope? Mum'll fix you right up, or Hermione. But you can't say you didn't deserve it, eh? You bloody git." He grinned again. "Come on, say hullo to everyone, why don't you?"  
  
He led Harry into the kitchen and he passed through in a surreal haze. It might have been the blood loss along with the head wound, but he suddenly began to feel warm and fuzzy all over. As Ron began to introduce him to all of the new family members, and all of the old ones lined up to tearfully hug him, Harry could only think one thing: I'm home. 


End file.
